


is that you reaching or you wanting to run

by darklanguages



Series: pistols at dawn [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (no money changes hands), (technically) - Freeform, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blackwatch Era, M/M, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, just a lot of Bad Life Decisions overall, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 17:12:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19044805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darklanguages/pseuds/darklanguages
Summary: Sometimes you want a distraction.Sometimes the distraction wants you.





	is that you reaching or you wanting to run

**Author's Note:**

> previous part does not have to be read, though it provides some context

Jesse strides down the streets of Rostov-on-Don, looking for...something. He isn’t quite sure what. He’s been here for two weeks and will stay for another three, barring any issues with the mission. Right now he’s posed as an American military attaché, quietly having killed and dumped the body of the real Charles McDonald in the Sea of Asov a week prior to taking his place. The man had been coming back from a pedophilic sex tour of Thailand, so Jesse didn’t feel too bad about it.

His Russian isn’t up to much more than basic conversation and profanity, but Jesse had soon discovered that they expected Americans to be stupid. He’d played it up, broadening his accent and smiling enough to make the taciturn Russians uncomfortable. He’d managed to finagle his way into getting an office in the Duma, the Rostov City Hall, and now he’s just biding his time until the Talon operation that’s supposed to happen in the secret rooms built into the Duma’s bedrock.

Long story short, it’s left him with a lot of spare time.

He finds the closest thing Rostov has to a red light district, but nothing appeals. He wants a drink more than anything else, honestly. Walking along a narrow road with mostly burned out lights, Jesse notices a string of Cyrillic letters that he knows means ‘bar’. Good enough.

There are steps down to a tightly closed steel door, which is...worrisome. The door opens at his knock to reveal a man of a size to rival Reinhardt. He barks out a number in rubles - god damn Russia, still using their ancient currency - that makes Jesse’s eyebrows raise once he figures out how much it is in euros. 

“Really?” he says, trying to let his face speak for him if the man doesn’t understand English.

“Pay or find other bar,” the bouncer says, and Jesse shrugs and forks over the cash. He’ll list it on his expense report as ‘food & drink’. Reyes knows what these long ops are like, knows when to look the other way. Jesse slips past the bouncer and down the stairs.

Once his eyes adjust to the dimness, Jesse allows himself a single eyebrow raise. He’s too well trained to let himself react otherwise, but he admits internally to some surprise. There’s a bar along the side full of serious drinkers of various levels of intoxication, but that’s not what draws the eye. It’s what’s in the rest of the space, dark wood and black leather and shining steel, contraptions of every type that have pretty girls and prettier boys tied to them. 

Before he can get more than a step inside, a massive omnic with small beady optical sensors appears in front of him. “Looking is free. Touching costs,” it says, and names a price that even Jesse wouldn’t be able to explain away to the budgetary committee. Jesse raises his hands in understanding and makes his way over to the bar. 

You can’t find bourbon in Rostov-on-Don for love or money - and oh, has Jesse tried - but there’s some locally-distilled liquor that’s close enough to a rough whisky that Jesse feels almost at home. It reminds him of the shit they used to brew themselves in Deadlock, whenever they managed to touch base somewhere for longer than a few days. Jesse takes his drink with a nod to the bartender and turns in his seat to look around.

He notes quickly the doors - up the stairs from where he came in, one with the international symbol for restrooms, another near the kitchen that’s likely a service entrance, and an opening presumably leading to a hallway with a sign above that Jesse would bet says ‘employees only’. Feeling secure in knowing how he can get out, he lets his eyes move over the room.

Jesse’s paid for his share of sex in his day, but the place still seems seedy even to his jaded eyes. A man in a corner is lazily thrusting into a girl tied down over a spanking horse and another man is facefucking a twink tied upside down to a St Andrew’s cross, but everyone else just seems...bored. Most of the people displayed about are on their tablets, bodies sagging as they don’t bother tensing muscles and posing for onlookers. Granted, Jesse is pretty much the only viewer as everyone else is hunched over their drinks at the bar, but still. It’s early evening on a Wednesday, this may well be the slow time.

He finishes his drink, has another. Pulls out his tablet and sends an update to Reyes, another to his Russian contact. He sends off the few emails required of him as an attaché, and has a third glass. Jesse’s feeling that level of warmth that would go very nicely with a smoke, so he cashes out and gets up to head to the front. 

“If you leave, pay cover again to come back,” the man guarding the door at the top of the stairs says. Jesse pauses. The drinks were incredibly cheap, enough to offset the idiotic cover charge - which he now understands, drinks aren’t what people come to this bar for - but not cheap enough to justify paying the cover twice. Jesse shrugs, walks out and smokes on his way back to his hotel. What a weird little place. 

-x-x-x-x-x-

Jesse goes to a few other bars over the next week, but they’re all full of loud, drunk Russians. He can’t fault them, he’d be the same if he had to live here with the devastation the Crisis caused. The RDF did a decent job defending the country, but they found themselves standing over rubble at the end of it. The fact that the country seems to have doubled down on their national pastime of drinking just seems like the obvious choice to Jesse.

He ends up back at the odd little bondage bar. He pays the cover again, nods to the omnic bouncer. It’s livelier, not surprising given it's a weekend night, but still a hundred times quieter than anywhere else he’d found. Pretty much everyone on the floor is occupied in some way, though. Jesse sends off his messages, leans back to take in the view. It’s kind of like having porn on in the background, not enough to ever get him off but adequate for some low level arousal. There’s a pretty girl getting flogged in the corner that catches his eye, and he relaxes back in his chair and watches for a bit. 

Sex and drink make Jesse want a smoke, but he’s not done drinking and he doesn’t feel like paying the cover again. He walks along the side of the room, glancing around to make sure he’s not noticed before slipping into the hallway that he’s assuming is the employee entrance. Sure enough he sees various messy lounges and dressing rooms, and his goal - a fire door propped open with a brick.

There’s a small patio surrounded by trees, benches scattered around. It attaches to an alleyway that abuts the back of the street’s building. A quick look around shows no movement, so Jesse leans up against the wall and lights up a cigar, breathing in deep. 

“Зажигалка?” a low voice comes from a shadowed corner. Jesse doesn’t jump, but his brows pull down in annoyance. It’s a rare thing that someone else gets the draw, metaphorically speaking in this case, on Jesse McCree. 

“Beg pardon?” he says. It wasn’t a word he recognized.

“A light, if you would not mind.” The voice is cultured, well spoken. An accent that Jesse can’t identify from the scant handful of words. As his vision adjusts to the dim illumination, Jesse can see eyes shining faintly in the security lights. There’s a man in an open robe, lazing back on one of the stone benches like it’s a throne. 

Camaraderie between smokers transcends culture, so Jesse nods and steps forward, arm with trusty Zippo outstretched. The flare of the lighter reveals sharp bone structure and a proud nose, dark hair and heavy brows. Jesse doesn’t recognize the expensive scent of the tobacco, and there’s a chemical tang to it that makes his nose twitch. The lighter is handed back to him with a brush of cool, callused fingers.

“American.” It’s a statement, not a question. Closer to an accusation. “You’re far from home.”

Jesse’s heard enough to place the accent. “It’s not like Japan is right next door.” He closes his left eye against the light, lets his other eye adjust to the night and pick out details about his unexpected companion. Broadly built, muscled, hint of a tattoo under the robe’s sleeve. His body language makes Jesse’s brain automatically place him in the ‘person to worry about’ category. “What brings you to this delightful area at this time of night?”

“I am off shift.” The man takes a long drink from a bottle that had been tucked just to the side of him.

“Really, now. Didn’t picture you the type.” It’s been two minutes but Jesse’s pretty sure this guy is miles away from the exhausted, apathetic employees he’d seen inside.

“Welcome to Rostov-on-Don. Appearances can be deceiving.” With that, the man gets up. He’s shorter than Jesse but just as wide. He’s bare underneath the open robe, and Jesse catches a glimpse of tan skin and what looks to be a very nice dick before the man silently pads away and disappears through a nearby door. 

Jesse finishes his cigar, and goes back inside for another drink.

-x-x-x-x-x-

“I do not particularly care myself, but you should know that you’re not supposed to be back here. The owners are...less than pleasant people.”

Jesse shrugs as he takes his lighter back. “Never was much good at followin’ directions.” The other man gives a considered nod - agreement or just acknowledgement, Jesse can’t tell. He takes a long drink from a bottle, a different one from last time. Jesse recognizes the label as a high proof vodka that he wouldn’t drink himself without a chaser, but this guy is downing it like water. 

They smoke in silence. Jesse tends to be a solitary creature at bars, but he’s overcome with the unfamiliar urge to say something. Perhaps it’s because he hasn’t spoken English with someone who doesn’t treat him like the diplomat he’s pretending to be in weeks. Maybe it’s the drinks in his system. Maybe it’s because he wants to see if the guy will move enough to shift the drape of the robe, show him a little more of what Jesse got a peek at the other night.

It’s been a while since he’s gotten laid and it’s showing.

Before he can say anything, however, the man stubs out the butt of his cigarette, dropping it in the now empty bottle. He walks steadily down the alley once more, no sign in his stride of what would be enough alcohol to put any normal person flat on their ass.

“Good talk,” Jesse murmurs.

-x-x-x-x-x-

“Would you like to fuck me?”

Jesse blinks at the question. He’s used to blunt, but not quite that blunt. “Didn't know it was an option. Thought you were off shift.”

The man shrugs. He pulls a pill out of his pocket, squints at it. Drags a thumbnail down the side and licks the residue off with a calculating look on his face. He’s about to pop it in his mouth when Jesse clears his throat.

“Rather you not did that, if you were serious. Like my partners to be able to participate.” 

The man shrugs once more. Gets to his feet with far more grace than he should given his how he’s been drinking - though it seems to be the usual for him - and motions for Jesse to follow him. “I keep no supplies here,” he says over his shoulder as he leads Jesse through the doorway he usually goes through into a room that has the barest necessities - bed, dresser, nightstand, lamp. “If you wish to use condoms you can buy some at the club.”

Jesse opens his wallet, finds nothing but some rubles and his various fake ID cards. “You clean?”

The man’s only answer is to let his robe drop to the floor, revealing a nicely shaped ass and shoulder muscles that Jesse longs to sink his teeth into. He’s still finishing up an antibiotic regimen Angie put him on after that infected cut from a while ago, so he should be okay. Maybe. Better living through chemistry and all that shit.

Jesse shucks his shirt, is more careful about his pants and the tiny pulse gun that’s tucked into a built-in holster at the back. He glances over at the man, but he’s just laying back in bed, body on display. It’s a nice body, one that Jesse wouldn’t mind passing an hour or two with. The man flexes, stretching. Maybe make that a full evening.

Kneeling on the bed, Jesse runs a lazy hand down the man’s chest. “Lube?”

A sinuous, slithery motion, as much an enticement as a shrug. “You are sloppy…” Heavy brows lower as he squints at the ceiling. “Sevenths, tonight? Eighths? I will be fine.”

Jesse lets his hand continue down and down. His entrance is swollen, tight muscles relaxed with repeated use and messy with slick. Fingers slide in with no resistance, slippery against soft flesh. From what Jesse can see it’s the only soft part of the man’s body - everything else is hard bone and tense slabs of muscle. Surprising, given his occupation and drinking schedule. He pulls his fingers out, wiping the residue on his own cock. 

“What’s your name?” Jesse asks. He doesn’t care, really, but figures it’s polite to at least try to put a name to who he’ll be coming inside. Not bothering to wait for an answer, he lines himself up, pushing in on an easy slide. The man’s not tight, not after over a half dozen other dicks, but he wraps around Jesse soft and close and wet and that’s all he really needs.

It’s good. Not particularly amazing - they really do need more lube, and the guy below Jesse doesn’t participate much, just stares at Jesse’s face with heavy-lidded, blurry eyes. He’s only half-hard, too, which Jesse ignores for the moment. He’s looser than Jesse likes, so after a few minutes Jesse pulls back. The guy seems limber enough so Jesse doesn’t bother asking before hooking his arms behind the guy’s knees and pushing forward. It tightens him up nicely so Jesse is really able to start slamming into him.

Hands wrap around Jesse’s biceps, fingers digging in as Jesse’s pulled closer. It’s good, little sparks of pain that push him lazily into orgasm. He slows, eyes slitted in pleasure as he fills the man up the way all those earlier customers no doubt wished they could. Jesse keeps going for another minute, until he’s too soft to stay inside. He pulls out, replacing cock with fingers.

Jesse is a man that pays his debts, and he doesn’t like to be thought of as stingy. Fingers slide in and out, feeling their way through lubrication and come until he hits something that makes the man’s thigh twitch. Jesse smiles and bends down, takes the man’s semi-hard dick in his mouth. He’s smooth, all hairless and surprisingly silky skin. It makes the man’s tight sac and slowly hardening cock seem almost delicate next to the power of the rest of him.

“Nice,” Jesse murmurs as he licks a line around the velvety base of the man’s cock.

“I wax,” comes a voice from above, and Jesse glances up to see the man frowning at the ceiling. It’s not an expression Jesse likes to have on his partners, so he twists his fingers and takes the guy down as far as he can, nose brushing against tan skin.

The man is tense, so tense, all bowstring tight tendons and shivering skin. He’s not getting up so Jesse doesn’t think it’s that he doesn’t want to be there. He thinks back to the club as he bobs his head. It’s likely that none of the man’s customers do this for him, don’t take his pleasure into account at all. Shame. 

Jesse uses his best tricks gained from a lifetime of being on his knees for one person or another or having someone on their knees for him, learning almost too late that sometimes that’s the position of power. He slips a third finger in, teases a fourth at the stretched rim. It goes in smoothly as well a minute later, accompanied by a quiet gasp from above him - the first real indication of pleasure he’s heard. Jesse rubs his thumb along lube-slick skin, thinks about how easy it would be to tuck it close to his palm and slide in. Not tonight, but something to keep in mind for the future. 

From there it’s uncomplicated, a little pressure and suction and the man gives up his orgasm to Jesse easy as anything. He’s deep enough in Jesse’s throat that he’s stuck swallowing, something Jesse isn’t normally amenable to. Oh well, beggars and choosers and all of that. 

Jesse pulls off slowly, enjoying watching the uncontrolled spasms in the man’s stomach muscles. His hand comes out with a crude, squelching sound, and he wipes it off on the sheets. He flops back, not planning on staying longer than he has to but enjoying the looseness of his post-sex limbs.

He watches, tired-eyed, as the man reaches out and grabs a tab of something from the handful scattered on the nightstand, downs it with the last of an unmarked bottle of liquor.

“That bad?”

“It’s not you, do not worry. You were fine. More than, even.” The man’s voice is still smooth, level. Jesse has the irrational urge to see what can make him scream.

Jesse makes a noncommittal noise. Good enough for him. He gets up with a yawn, fumbles his way into his pants. He’s doing up the buttons on his shirt when a throat being cleared from the bed draws his attention.

The man has curled on his side - not in any way that hides his nakedness, but more like a big cat getting ready for bed. “Hanzo,” he says, catching Jesse’s eyes in a sleepy version of his earlier intense gaze. “I am Hanzo.”

“Pleasure. I’m Jesse.” He isn’t sure why he doesn’t give his alias. Perhaps it’s because Hanzo sounded like he was being reluctant but honest himself. He steps into his boots and slips out the door, not looking back.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Jesse stops by the club twice more over the next week, fucks Hanzo both times. It’s good, better than his own hand and certainly nice that he doesn’t have to pay for it. There’s something frustrating about it, though, something off. Like he’s trying to swordfight with a blunted weapon, like he’s on the battlefield and realizing he has a training gun filled with blanks. He’s certain that Hanzo is far more interesting than lazy sex and a job in a glorified brothel, despite the man’s reticence. 

He doesn’t care that much, he’s only in town for another week and a half at most, but it’s something niggling at him, a toothache that keeps flaring up.

A few things change the next time Jesse stops by.

He’s lying on his back in Hanzo’s bed, hands wrapped around strong thighs as Hanzo rides him slowly, gracefully. His hips are rolling with the steadiness of ocean waves, and Jesse wonders if Hanzo accidentally slipped him one of his many little pills because he doesn’t normally get all poetic over fucking. Jesse’s thinking about if he can last long enough to get Hanzo off while he’s still inside. He probably can, he’s hard and brushing up against Jesse’s stomach on every third stroke.

Point being, it’s slow and calm and good, until it’s not. 

The door to the main street explodes inwards, and there’s a man with a goddamned sword in his hand, scarf over his face and some kind of robe patterned with two dragons eating each others’ tails. In a single movement, Hanzo rolls off Jesse to the right side of the bed and Jesse slides off the left edge. He’s just yanked his pulse pistol out of his pants and brought it up to aim when there’s a cut off curse. An arrow sprouts from the intruder’s throat, and he goes down in a heap. 

Hanzo is standing there, cock still hard, absolutely enormous bow in his hands. He leans it against a wall and prowls forward, no sign of the calm and indifferent man Jesse has been used to. He kneels next to the intruder as Jesse slowly lowers his pistol, yanking the arrow out in a small gush of blood. He considers the razor sharp edged point for a moment, before yanking it across the remains of the man’s throat in a smooth motion and a fountain of red. There’s a wheeze that turns into a gurgle and the uncomfortable scrape of steel on bone.

Jesse finds himself pinned in place by Hanzo’s eyes, looking up at him with fire in them, like he’s full of all the life that he just took. He’s wearing gloves of blood, the splashback from the man’s death having coated his hands and forearms, and it’s the hottest thing Jesse’s seen in quite awhile.

He takes Hanzo just like that against the wall, neither man having the patience to make it to the bed. One of Hanzo’s hands is braced against the wall, black-red smears left against the grey plaster as he shoves back into Jesse as much as he can. The other hand digs into Jesse’s ass, pulling him in hard, blood from the assassin mixing with the blood his nails are drawing from Jesse’s skin.

Jesse gives as good as he gets, biting down hard into Hanzo’s shoulder when he comes. Hanzo throws his head back, coming with a low groan and splashing himself and the wall with white. They stay pressed together for a long minute, coming down from the high. Jesse finally pulls out and steps back, making a grunt of disgust when he steps on the slack fingers of dead man’s hand. 

They stumble it to the bed, uncaring of how they dirty the sheets. Hanzo strikes a match on the wall, using it to light one of his short little cigarettes. Jesse waves off his wordless offer to take a drag, gets out one of his own cigars instead. They smoke quietly for a while, until Hanzo sits up with a sigh.

“Need any help gettin’ rid of him?”

Hanzo shakes his head as he stands. He stretches, the streaks of blood and come almost seeming like a continuation of his tattoo, geometric precision degrading into abstract impressions. “I will take care of it after I shower.” He goes through a small doorway at the side of the room and shuts the door, and the sound of running water soon starts up. 

Jesse gets dressed unhurriedly. He doesn’t know that much about the yakuza, just enough to know that Hanzo’s tattoo marks him as one of them, at least once upon a time. Overwatch had tangled with a few of the clans over the years, but Jesse had never been part of the ops. He’d been pretty sure that Hanzo was more interesting than just an alcoholic brothel worker, and now he had a taste of who Hanzo might have once been.

He walks down the alleyway to get back to his hotel, wondering idly if he could somehow encourage more assassins. It’s not that he likes the bodies, but the sex was goddamn excellent.

-x-x-x-x-x-

It’s been a bad day.

Jesse ran into a couple of Talon agents while sneaking through some of the Duma’s back hallways. One recognized him, the real him, ruining his prepared story about being a lost American diplomat before he could even try it. He killed them easily enough but it was messy, requiring him to lug the bodies all over hell’s half acre until he found a maintenance room that had the door practically rusted shut. Thank god for Russian spring weather - it should stay cold enough that the bodies shouldn’t start to smell until after he was gone.

His clothing was ruined, and it was just luck that he had a spare shirt and pants stashed in his office (conveniently located near the stairwell, for easy covert access). Jesse wanted to shower but he was keyed up, the day’s violence still sparking in his veins. He needed to get to the bar - he always caught Hanzo there at the same time of night and if he showed up late he wasn’t sure if he’d be there.

When Jesse gets there he wastes no time in hustling Hanzo back into his small excuse for an apartment. Hanzo is amenable but somewhat indifferent until Jesse gets his shirt off. Jesse startles to feel hands wrapped around his waist - they’re not very touchy other than what’s necessary. 

“What’s this?” Hanzo murmurs, and Jesse feels a hand stroke along his ribs, wrapping from back to front.

Jesse frowns and twists around, and when he lifts his arm he sees a streak of brownish red. Damnit. The first guy had gone down easy with a broken neck, but the second was messier. The blood must have soaked all the way through his suit jacket. He hadn’t even noticed.

Hanzo licks a finger slowly, and Jesse’s eyes get caught on his wide mouth. He reaches down, touches the dried blood with his wet finger, turns it back into liquid that he smears in a hard drag of his finger over Jesse’s ribs. 

“You are more interesting than I thought you were, Jesse,” Hanzo murmurs, and Jesse can’t help but shove forward to catch Hanzo’s mouth in a kiss. It’s hard, biting, and just what Jess needs after a day like today. They tumble to the bed in a mess of frantic limbs and fervor.

Jesse lets Hanzo draw blood with teeth and nails - it’s like the trickles down his back are letting the buzzing, the static out of his veins. He’s braced above Hanzo, sweat dripping down, and doesn’t say no when Hanzo takes Jesse’s hand and presses it over his throat. This, at least, is something in his life that Jesse can control.

Hanzo keeps his hand loosely wrapped around Jesse’s wrist, and though Jesse’s waiting for him to push his arm back to get more air he never does. He just looks up at Jesse with glassy eyes and red cheeks, and the wheeze in his throat stops altogether when he comes and chokes on nothing. Jesse lets him catch his breath as he fucks into him hard, comes at the memory of Hanzo’s pulse throbbing under his fingers.

He listens to the soft rasp as Hanzo takes a drag off of the cigarette, afterwards. “Why?” he asks, finally.

“Why what?”

Jesse waves a hand in the general direction of the bar. “You don’t get enough of bein’ held down and fucked in there?”

Raspy breath in, raspy breath out. “I know that they would never follow through.”

Jesse sits there with dried blood on his back and dried come on his chest and the sense memory of another man’s life under his fingers, and silently agrees.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Another day, another body.

It’s three days until the Talon group is supposed to show - they’re purported to be working with the local omnics so as to get a foothold in southern Russia. The main motivation is apparently money and materials - Talon gets the raw ore they need that’s only available in Russian open-pit mines and whatever they can loot from the city, the omnics get western Russia in a pincer grip. 

Jesse’s spent the past few weeks breaking down the icy exterior of the Duma’s chief of staff. She is the only one with access to the basement building codes - changed every twelve hours and needing fingerprint ID. It took him a few days to figure out what would work, but ‘wide-eyed newly minted diplomat looking for an older female mentor to guide him’ turned out to be the key. 

He spends the evening at a party for...something involving the cultural attaché, he’s honestly not sure what. Half the time he’s making eyes at the chief of staff from across the room, the other half he’s scarfing down shrimp cocktail with his back turned to the room as fast as he can because he didn’t get lunch. Finally, finally, he’s able to get the chief into a corner, whispering nervously into her ear about how the building is empty and he was thinking about that big shiny desk in her office.

Twenty minutes later Jesse’s sitting on that desk, watching the chief writhe and twitch on the floor, her swelling face turning purple. He picks at the scraps of shrimp in his teeth with a toothpick as he twirls her epinephrine pen in his other hand, meeting her furious, dizzy glare with steady eyes.

Pity about that shellfish allergy of hers.

Once the froth at her mouth has stopped bubbling and the only heartbeat in the room is his own, Jesse takes a fingerprint impression and snags her tablet, copying the codes over. He wipes down the pen and leaves it a few feet away from her hand, just another accidental death of a promising politician. He strolls out, the cameras having already been turned away by the paranoid chief who didn’t want a sex scandal on her hands.

Jesse gets into the basement with ease, and is able to confirm that Talon is definitely going to show - they have all kinds of things stored here. He sets up bugs and transmitters in unobtrusive places, messages Reyes and makes sure they’re communicating. The rest of his team will be arriving in a few days, ready to help him take out all of the local leaders. Then, finally, he can get out of this godforsaken city.

There are a few bright spots, of course, and one is waiting for him at the bar.

Jesse doesn’t know what his face looks like, but it’s enough for Hanzo to murmur, “Someone’s in a good mood.”

With a shrug, Jesse pushes Hanzo down onto the bed, grabs the bottle of lube from the nightstand that he finally bought after getting sick of too dry fucks. Hanzo plucks it out of his hand, sets it back on the table. His left leg wraps around Jesse’s thighs, and with a quick twist he’s flipped their positions before Jesse knows what’s happened. He raises an eyebrow - the only people he’s seen move like that are Reyes and Morrison - but before he can think any further there’s warm wetness sinking down on him.

Jesse reaches over, gets a pillow behind him so he can be propped up and look down at a very nice sight. He works his hands into Hanzo’s hair, pulls out the tie holding it back. There’s a slight scrape of teeth and a glare upwards as inky blackness falls messily over Hanzo’s face, but he relaxes as Jesse threads fingers into his hair and slowly tightens them. 

Hanzo stills, and very deliberately moves his hands to the side, sliding them under the outside of Jesse’s thighs and holding on firmly. Jesse exhales slowly. This  _ is _ a good night. He pulls his hand away, combing Hanzo’s hair up into a tail that he wraps around his fist. He starts out slow, pushing Hanzo’s head down, pulling it back up gently. Hanzo moves so easily, following every move of Jesse’s hands. 

Paradoxically, Hanzo seems to relax more and more as Jesse pulls him down harder, moves him faster. Jesse almost slows down when he feels tears hitting his lower stomach, but it seems to be from hitting the back of Hanzo’s throat rather than actual crying, so he keeps going. It’s all perfect suction, perfect following of directions, and Jesse wonders in the back of his endorphin-soaked brain where Hanzo learned all of this. On the job, or somewhere else. 

Every dozen strokes he holds Hanzo’s head down, keeps him there just long enough that he’s sure it gets uncomfortable. His free hand moves down to Hanzo’s throat, strokes up and down until he obediently swallows around Jesse. He pulls him up, then, lets him get in some air. Jesse doesn’t miss how Hanzo’s hips are moving, slowly thrusting into the messy bedclothes. It’s enough to get him really going, to pull Hanzo down hard enough that he would be worried about breaking his nose if it didn’t feel so fucking good.

Jesse pulls Hanzo’s head to the side, so he can meet his eyes while his lips are buried in Jesse’s messy pubic hair. “Swallow,” Jesse says, and holds Hanzo’s gaze while he comes. He lets Hanzo’s head go after, fingercombs his hair gently as Hanzo slowly pulls off. He rests his head on Jesse’s hipbone, a strand of saliva still connecting his lips to Jesse’s cock.

One hand is slowly pulled from where it’s had a death grip on Jesse’s leg, makes its way down and between Hanzo’s thighs. Hanzo gets off like that, hand trapped between his body and the bed, working himself while he breathes slowly and unevenly onto Jesse’s softened cock and Jesse’s hand strokes through his hair. He comes with a soft sigh, and they both just keep laying there for a while until Jesse’s eyes start to droop.

Hanzo gets up, stretches. Jesse appreciates the shift of muscles under colorful skin, idly wonders how he maintains them. Does he do arm curls with kegs from the bar? Hanzo reaches under the bed, and there’s the clinking of glass. He surfaces with a bottle, that one godawful vodka that would work better as degreaser than anything else. Hanzo downs it without a flinch.

“Why do you do all that to yourself?” Jesse finds himself asking, without quite meaning to. Hanzo raises a tufted eyebrow in question.

“The drinkin’, the pills. ‘S obvious you got a past followin’ you, but you could do better than hidin’ away in this crap city.”

“It’s not so bad a place, once you have been here for a while. When I work a shift, I can take what I wish from the bar.”

“How long’s a while?”

Hanzo doesn’t answer. He leans back against the headboard, closes his eyes. Takes a long drink without bothering to open them again. “I had someone, once,” he says eventually.

After a long silence, Jesse finally says, “And?”

“And now I don’t.” His tone has the air of finality, of no more questions.

Whoever it was that Hanzo had, losing them was enough to drive him across a continent and seemingly sever ties with his clan. Jesse gets that, to an extent. He has ink of his own that says where he came from and why he can’t go back writ deep into his skin.

The thought occurs, not for the first time, that Hanzo would fit right into Blackwatch.

Jesse snags the bottle and takes a slug as Hanzo dry-swallows something, passes it back as he winces at the burn. Vodka, especially this shit stuff, is just pain without flavor. Might as well drink rubbing alcohol. It’s still enough to warm his chest and give him the motivation to get up and get dressed.

He hesitates in the doorway, looking back at the man on the bed. The empty bottle dangles from Hanzo’s fingers, drops to the floor with a soft clunk. Hanzo doesn’t react. Jesse closes the door quietly behind him and makes his way through the empty streets.

-x-x-x-x-x-

“You ready to go?” Reyes is looking at him with a duffel bag full of documents slung over his shoulder and blood still tacky on the side of his face.

Jesse shrugs, packing his own duffel up slowly. “Unless you need me for somethin’ specific, was hopin’ to stay an extra day and wrap up some loose ends.”

“It’ll come out of your week of leave.”

“That’s fine.”

“All right. You’re still technically on op, so keep your receipts for the return flight and submit them to Budget.”

“Thanks, boss.” Jesse finishes stuffing the bag with the last of the electronics they’d gotten off of the Talon people, handing it off to Reyes. It had all gone smoothly - the Talon leaders dead, the omnic leaders deactivated or in custody, and a whole lot of evidence of future plans that Jesse’s glad he doesn’t have to go through. He glances around the room, but it’s been stripped of everything but the bodies.

He unselfconsciously strips off his tac gear, gets redressed in his suit. He hands the gear to Fio - “Thanks, darlin’.” “Not your momma, McCree. I’m throwing this out the side of the Orca.” - and makes his way back upstairs to his office. They decided not to burn the identity, so Jesse digs his thumbnail into his wrist until his eyes water, goes to his diplomatic boss and claims a family emergency. They like Jesse, or at least the part he’s been playing, and it’s uncomfortable to have them all worried about him and asking if they can help. He leaves as soon as he can, makes his way back to his hotel. Nothing he leaves in his office is anything he can do without.

It takes him a while to get everything together - once you’ve lived somewhere for over a month, even the worst hotel room can start to seem like home. Jesse looks at himself in the mirror, the suit and tie that he’s lived in, and feels like he’s looking at a stranger. He takes it off, puts on jeans and boots and a tattered button up, He fishes his hat off of the bedpost where it’s been hanging for weeks, crams it down over his head. 

He’s still unsettled in his own skin, but it’s closer to normal. Closer to the real him.

Jesse gets to the bar earlier than usual, ends up laying on the bench flat on his back, smoking and staring up through the trees. He blinks as a shadow falls over him, and Hanzo’s looking down at him with the very slightest of smiles on his lips. 

“Is this what you people call ‘casual Friday’?” he asks, glancing over Jesse’s outfit with a raised eyebrow.

Jesse rolls his eyes and gets to his feet. He follows Hanzo into the apartment. “This is my last day in town.”

“Mmm. So you are done with whatever operation you were doing.” 

Jesse stills, stands in the doorway with watchful eyes as Hanzo keeps walking and kicks off his sandals. He glances back at Jesse and rolls his eyes. “Come, now. I do not know who you work for nor do I care, but don’t pretend you are some American businessman or whatever you have been calling yourself.” He lets his robe drop to the floor.

“Military attaché,” Jesse says with a wry smile. “Don’t think that I could be very convincin’ as a businessman.” He unbuttons his shirt, and Hanzo’s eyes follow his fingers.

“Mmm. Perhaps.” Hanzo pushes Jesse down to the bed, pulls his boots off with quick jerks. Jesse lets him finish getting him undressed, hard already despite Hanzo’s hand being nowhere near his dick.

The sex is good, more playful and less violent than their usual. Hanzo rides Jesse until the headboard dents the wall, until he comes with his back arched and body on display just for Jesse. Jesse in turn runs his hands over smooth skin, enjoying the sensation of being weighted down by heavy bone and strong muscle. They pass a joint back and forth after, Jesse feeling warm and fuzzy and anything but ready to go back to training and paperwork.

“Why’d you offer, that first time?” he says eventually, because he’ll be back in Switzerland in just a few hours and won’t ever see Hanzo again.

Hanzo takes a long drag, holds the smoke for seconds that slowly tick by until he finally exhales in a slow stream. “I thought you might be here for me.”

“What, to kill you?”

A shrug. “You saw an attempt yourself. They’re not uncommon.” Questions, questions. Every time Hanzo answers something more questions sprout up like hydra heads.

“So what, you invited me into your bed because…”

“Because you looked like you might be capable of finishing the job.”

Jesse rolls over onto his side, looks Hanzo in the face. What a strange, broken man. “Sorry.” Jesse doesn’t know if he’s ever apologized for not killing someone before.

“It’s all right,” Hanzo says, and hands Jesse the joint so he can take a long drink from yet another bottle. “This worked out as well.” 

Jesse stretches, back popping. He needs to get around if he’s going to finish packing and make his flight. He gets up, pulls his clothes on as Hanzo watches and drinks. It’s been a miserable few weeks, but at least he had this to make it more interesting.

He walks over to the side of the bed and reaches down to run a hand through Hanzo’s hair, come loose from its tie. He lets his hand continue down, lets it rest on Hanzo’s throat. The smallest bit of pressure, just enough to feel the breath go in and out. Hanzo looks up with tired, tired eyes, whose expression Jesse can read all too easily. He closes them, looking almost at peace. 

Jesse doesn’t do what he wants, though. Just reaches up slightly to brush his thumb over Hanzo’s full lower lip, to tug it down a bit. He pulls his hand away and steps into his boots, walking towards the doorway. He glances back to see Hanzo in the same position, unmoving: on his back, eyes closed, bottle in hand. Jesse opens his mouth to say something, but what can he say? He doesn’t know him, not really, and Jesse’ll be back in Zurich soon and entrenched in another operation. 

There are people you can save, and people who have to decide to save themselves.

Jesse lights a cigar, and steps out into the cool Russian evening.


End file.
